Ghosts
by Tracy
Summary: Jack and Sara O'Neill's thoughts after the divorce


Ghosts

by Tracy LeCates

I've been by myself in the house before, but this is the first time I've ever felt truly alone. The sound of the door closing behind Jack still rings out in my head, though it's been almost an hour now since that car came for him, since he walked out that door… for the last time. I know in my heart that when I said goodbye to him this morning it was for good. I saw the look in his eyes. He thinks he's so good at hiding things, and maybe he is, at least from the rest of the world. But, not from me. I've lived with that man almost my entire adult life - shared his bed, carried his son, washed his dirty clothes, watched him from across the dinner table as he lied his way through another meal… I saw the look in his eyes, and I know he's gone now. 

I didn't think he'd talk to the officers when they came the other day. He doesn't talk to anyone anymore. Not even to me. Especially not to me. But, as always, duty called and Jack answered. No, it was more than that. More than duty calling. Those officers came to offer him another loaded gun to put to his head and he took it. I know he's been thinking about it ever since the hospital, ever since Charlie died. I know he's kept his gun close, and I haven't tried to take it away from him. Jack's a resourceful man. Taking a single gun away from him wasn't going to do any good. I suppose some part of him thought it would be fitting for him to blow his own head off with the same gun that killed Charlie. There was a part of me that truly held no fear of him actually doing it. It would leave too much of a mess for me to clean up, and insurance doesn't pay on suicide. I realize what a cold thought that is, but it's the cold truth. He wouldn't be doing his duty, and duty is what Jack O'Neill's foundation is. 

Whatever this assignment is that they brought to our door, it's his ticket out and he knows it. It's his opportunity to commit suicide without having to leave a note or worry about what I'd do without the insurance money. I think he realizes that he died the same day as our son, his body was just too stubborn to admit it and lie down. 

That fucking bastard. That selfish fucking bastard. Sometimes I get so angry with him. God, how I've wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him, make him see what he's done to himself, to me, to us… but I've come to realize that shaking a corpse doesn't bring it back to life, and that's what Jack's become.

Life with Jack has never been dull, though it's been a little lonely at times. Sure, my getting pregnant with Charlie was the catalyst for our marriage, but I honestly believe that we grew to love each other. I know I loved him, and he was a devoted husband, and father. Maybe that's what should be put on his headstone - Here lies Jack O'Neill, he did his duty. 

I realized when we first got married that the military lifestyle was something I was going to have to adapt to, because it was not going to adapt itself to me. At first I thought the constant moving was the worst thing of all. After the third house I decided not to bother painting anything, or planting anything. I thought the constant upheaval of packing and moving, leaving old friends, making tentative new ones was the hardest part of life with Jack. I was wrong. 

The first time he sat across the dinner table and uttered the words, "Sorry, honey, that's classified," when I asked what he'd done that day… that was the beginning of the worst. It took a long time to get used to; having his days and sometimes nights, or weeks being something I couldn't ask about, couldn't hear about, couldn't share… It took a long time for me to stop taking it personally. But, I don't think I ever stopped feeling left out. Or, scared.

Jack O'Neill isn't a man to wear his heart on his sleeve, he doesn't cry at sad movies and he doesn't frighten easily. But, I've seen him frightened. I've seen him scared half to death. I've seen him wake up in the middle of the night, a barely stifled scream locked in his throat and a haunted look in his eyes. I've seen it all, but he never talked about it. He couldn't. Whether it was the official classified status of his missions, or his own conscience that took precedence over his tongue I was never sure, but he never breathed a word about whatever horrors were disturbing his sleep. At least he never breathed a word to me.

And still I hadn't seen the worst. 

Our marriage died with our son, and so did Jack's will to go on. His guilt consumed him instantly and completely, leaving behind nothing of the man I'd married. 

The suitcase is out on the bed before I even know what my intentions are, and I have to think that maybe Jack isn't the only one who's been operating on autopilot lately. I keep thinking about that look on his face as he told me he was leaving, going back to active duty. He'd cut his shaggy hair back to that military cut I'd gotten so used to identifying with him, and put on his uniform… He didn't kiss me goodbye, and that was a first. I don't think he could bring himself to get that close to me. From halfway across the room I could read the truth in his eyes. 

I can't be here. I don't know how long it's going to take before they show up at the door again; a couple of faceless men in uniform, here to break the bad news to Mrs. O'Neill… I don't know how long before they come to deliver the news of my husband's death, but I know I can't be here when I hear it. I can't stay here in this house, alone with two ghosts right now. 

I  w  l  x  p  q  l  a  m  b  g  v  c  ,

I think I knew the second I had that front door open that she was gone. The house was silent, and more than that, it felt empty. Granted she hadn't called a moving truck, all the furniture was still here, but everything that ever made this house a home was gone. Much as I hate to admit it, mixed into the mess of emotions that almost knocked me to my knees when I realized she was gone… there was a little relief, too. The tension that had almost become a living entity in the house with us was gone. I'm not sure which one of us it left with, her or me, but it's gone. 

I called out her name a couple of times from the foot of the staircase, but almost felt like an idiot for doing it. If I'm gonna be honest with myself, I guess I'd have to admit that I'd have been more surprised if I'd come home and found her here. 

Yeah… I've fucked this all up, but good. Fucking up is something I have loads of experience in, so I'm pretty sure I can say with some certainty that there's no fixing this. Not anymore. A couple of weeks ago, sure, maybe… but not now.  Maybe not even back then. I was drowning, she was drowning, neither one of us had a lifejacket for ourselves, nevermind one to throw to the other. I know she's been trying. She's been the one reaching out and I've been the stubborn shit shutting her out and shoving her away with both hands. 

She didn't leave me a note, and I know why. She didn't expect me to come back at all, except maybe in a bag. I can't blame her for thinking that. It was my intention. 

Am I gonna go after her now? Try to get her to come back? No. The thought crossed my mind when I opened up the door to the bedroom closet and saw half of it empty. I had the phone in my hand a minute later, but couldn't bring myself to dial it. She deserves more than this. She deserves to heal, to find some peace, to move on with her life if she can. I can't give her any of that. Not now, maybe not ever. I'm the still the picture of the walking wounded, but at least I'm walking now, instead of sitting on my ass, wallowing in my own self-pity and dirty guilt. I'm afraid that there're a lot more cold realities I'm gonna have to face now that my mind is a little more clear. One of those realities may just be that our marriage wasn't strong enough to survive something like this. 

Charlie… he was the reason we got married in the first place. Of course, her father never knew that, thanks to a speedy ceremony and our son's refusal to be born on time. Stubborn from the get-go, just like his old man. There was never any question in our minds when she told me she was pregnant. We were going to get married. It was the right thing to do, and we did it. We got married, and Sarah and I moved into the first of many houses we'd live in. The baby was born, and everything was fine. Not great, not exciting, not the stuff you see in movies, but… fine. I swore up and down that I wasn't gonna be the same kind of father my old man was. I wasn't gonna ignore the kid, or criticize him too much, or try to make him into something he wasn't… No, I turned out to be a real different kind of dad. I didn't fuck my kid up. I killed him. 

I know… that I will never… be able to forgive myself for what I did… but for a little while I was able to almost forget. 

Life exists on other planets. The thought alone blows me the hell away. I've been looking up at the stars since I was a kid - got my first telescope when I was about ten, and I can't count the number of nights Charlie and I sat out on the deck… He asked me once if there were people out there. Dumbass that I am, I think I told him, 'Probably not'. I was wrong. Big surprise. 

Yeah, life does exist on other planets, Charlie, and your dumbass father went into space to commit suicide. 

I went without a second thought. Walked out on my wife, who was in pain, and went off to splatter myself all over an alien world. I guess my survival instinct was stronger than I thought it was. There must have been some small spark of life in me that I didn't figure I had anymore, because I'm still here. And I'll still be here tomorrow. I just don't know what the hell I'm gonna do.

I'm in no shape to command right now, and I was an ass to think that I was when I led that team through the Stargate. Sarah can have the house. She can have the house, the furniture, the car, the bank account, anything she goddamn wants. I can't live here anymore. I can't. I can't stay in this house and beat myself to death slowly, dying a little more every day, letting the guilt eat at me. I'll give her a divorce if she wants one, and I'm pretty damn sure she does by now, and I don't have any hard feelings towards her. Yeah, she left me physically, but I left her in other ways a long time ago. 

I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do tomorrow, or for however many more tomorrows I've got left in me. I guess now would be a good time to find a hobby. Maybe I'll take up drinking. Or maybe I'll give up smoking. I don't know. I guess tomorrow I'll go find a place to live. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can think. Somewhere I can put up my telescope and look up into the night sky and watch for the ships that may come. And maybe, wave to a dweeb who saved my life. 

fin


End file.
